Only Business
by the-coconut-bubble
Summary: Syaoran Li: Smash hit success in the musical world and hardcore drug addict. Mokota Li: His billionaire father, who would do anything to save his son. Sakura Kinomoto: She who Mokota hired to do the job. The one condition: she can’t fall in love.


**(A/N: The storyline popped up randomly in my head. Let's see what became of it…) **

Disclaimer: I do not own Card Captor Sakura. I own whatever their personalities are in this story and any character that I make up.

Chapter 1

I stood outside of a long gate. Wall. A gate squeezed unceremoniously in between two long stretches of smooth wall. Ugly stone figures towered over the arch, their distorted faces leering at me. A cold breeze blew in from behind me, and the gnarly branches of the ancient trees lining the path creaked and groaned, as if threatening to crack and splinter and rain thousands of tiny wooden shards down upon my head.

It wasn't a good omen. And I had always been superstitious. Blinking nervously, I forced a lump down my throat as I pressed the button on the old-fashioned intercom. The plastic was smooth under my fingers. Immediately, an answering buzz came back and a voice said,

"State your name and business."

I forced down the lump again. What had I done to deserve such a snappish greeting?

"I'm Kinomoto Sakura." I felt my voice shaking. "Li-sama requested I come to--"

"Ah," the voice interrupted me, making me wonder yet again why its owner hated me so. "Yes, I know who you are. Come in." I didn't even get a "please". The gate swung open with a flash of gold paint.

Deep-brown brick, expensive marble pillars and dully shining roof tiles beckoned to me regally as I started the long walk from the front gate to the house. They left me no doubt that this was the place. Very high-class, as only a billionaire rock star could afford to live in. The stone figures by the gate were imposing, 15th-century statues of medieval knights, obviously authentic and extremely costly. The damn _gate _hadn't even squeaked. Not one bit. Yep. This was the place alright.

Mentally, I started conjuring up figures and angle shots of the house, wondering how much it would cost. My last job had been an exterior decorator. The one before that had been a resale housing agent. I had actually liked those two jobs.

But all good things must come to an end. I sighed as the thought crossed my mind. It was time to move on.

The sun beat down on me as I made my way up the hill leading to the house. Mansion. Leading to the mansion. I sighed yet again. The Li kid sure was lucky. I had never seen such grandeur in my childhood, let alone lived in it. Of course, I was never _exactly _poor either. Just unfortunate. But I had loving parents. Parent. I had a loving parent. I would have had two, but my mother died during childbirth, and thus I never knew her.

My life was spent living with my father, who provided for me as best he could. I loved him dearly, and I knew he loved me too. I didn't know anybody else in the first five years of my life. On the first day of kindergarten, I had burst into tears and clung onto him when he tried to leave. A kindly teacher tried to pry me away, but I stuck to him like a burr. I remember the teachers giving each other exasperated looks, and then finally deciding to have my father stay a while. So I stopped crying. But all of my classmates avoided me after that. I never did stop crying until he came to pick me up.

At nighttime, after the whole bumbling chaos that was school was over, we'd have dinner, sitting side by side with our plates in front of the television. We would watch sitcoms or reality shows, cheesy horror movies and mushy soap operas. Drama was a highlight in my life. Some of my favourite memories were created in front of the television.

When it was time for bed, dad would read me bedtime stories. Or he'd tell them to me; ones he made up off the top of his mind. Those were the best; the ones he told. He was a wonderful storyteller, and he always captivated me with his voice, the way he spoke and gestured with his hands, his eyes compelling me to see what he was seeing.

Of course, I had my childhood problems. They weren't merely from school. A few times when I was searching the house for dad to tell me a story, I saw him sitting in our small kitchen, staring into the fire with a sad look in his eyes. I would hide behind the doorframe, peeking at his silhouette against the flickering flames. He never moved from his spot, ever. A picture of my mother hung above the fireplace. He would hold it in his hands. He never looked at it. Just held it. At times like these, I felt it was my fault that mother had died.

I'd always wondered growing up what it would have been like to grow up with two parents. Would things be very different? Of course they would be. Dad wouldn't have had such a tired air all the time, and his brown hair wouldn't be mixed with so many streaks of gray. All my life, I'd tried to help him as much as I could. I'd understood early on that he needed me. Not just to help, of course, but as a companion for him as well. He never expected mother to die either.

Dad "retired" last year. "Retired". He told me he had retired, when he came back from work early. But I'd found out. Dad worked as a bricklayer and cement mixer, mixing the goopy stuff and building houses with it. He was one of the best in the business, until he had hurt his back carrying a load too heavy for him. The easy, low-paying jobs always seemed to find him after that. The jobs on the side, ones that were invented purely because the head of the company was a compassionate person. But a few months later, the construction company went out of business. Dad was out of a job.

I was sixteen, just about to go to university. I'd worked hard in high school, and had gotten a sufficient average to get me a scholarship into one of the better universities in Tomoeda. Dad had always wanted me to get a good education. He had never had one.

But since he was incapable of working, I had to provide for us. In a year, I had tried out for any job that didn't require office experience or a degree. Trying to name them all would take at least as long as it did to complete them. I never seemed to be able to find a high-paying job with enough of a flexible schedule for me to do my academic work. My future looked bleak. And my father worried.

But suddenly, on one stormy night, when the fire was sputtering from the wind coming from the chimney and the thin glass in the windows were rattling on their rusty hinges, my life changed. Call it fate, call it luck, call it whatever your mother named you. Because I had the sudden urge to watch television. I guess my life then was too busy for drama. And then my chance came.

I flicked on the set, changing channels so fast that both my finger and the screen were just a blur. Finally, I stopped on the news channel, where a report was being issued by a tall, blond, anorexic-looking woman dressed in a suit consisting of a flesh-coloured sweater and similar skirt. I shut my eyes from this disturbing scene and just listened. Without all te graphic pictures, I managed to gather sufficient information.

Rock star Syaoran Li had a drug addiction. His manager-father had caught him sleeping outside a strip club in the city, covered with drunken girls. When interrogated, young master Li had confessed to hiding drugs in a slat under the floor, and going wild on alcohol. And he couldn't stop. Master Li tried everything; therapists, pharmacists, psychiatrists, the best doctors in the world. Nothing.

So now he was appealing to the public. Perhaps he thought there was a child prodigy somewhere, like Mozart, but with a talent for helping people rid drug addictions instead of playing music. Hah. What a laugh. I thought it was a gigantic joke, as I watched the news report, but of all things, Master Li offered money. My eyes had grown wide as I saw the number appear on the screen, so wide, in fact, that a rather large dust particle flew into it and caused me to roll around in agony for the next ten minutes, trying to figure out how to get it out. But I remembered the address, and the very next day, I walked into the Mayahishi Records headquarters to attend an interview.

Even now, I don't know why they chose me over all the others. Certainly a great number of odd people showed up, mind doctors and therapists included. There was even a boy who looked to be no older than 14 and the head of a motorcycle gang, as well as self-proclaimed psychic.

Dressed in my most formal suit, I walked had confidently through the big revolving doors, up seventeen flights of stairs (the elevator had broken down. You'd think a giant company like Mayahishi Records could afford proper maintenance), down five long corridors with closed doors that had brass plaques engraved with printing too small to read, through four more sets of doors and finally arrived at my destination. I knocked. A voice beckoned me to come in. I straightened my skirt one more time and turned the doorknob. Stepping through the door, I caught a fleeting glimpse of a mahogany desk, scattered all over with papers of all shapes and sizes. Three people sat behind it; one obese, one plump, and one skinny as a stick. I fought down the urge to laugh. But as soon as I looked into their faces, saw the confidence and impatience flaring in their eyes, all my sureness evaporated. I managed to stumble through the interview without even realizing any of the questions.

Like I said, I don't know why they picked me.

But now, here I am, walking up the longest, steepest driveway I've ever seen, leading up to the biggest, most elegant house I've ever seen. So perhaps the gods favoured me after all.

As I finally cleared the crest of the hill, I realized that my legs were pulsing, the blood rushing back into my sore muscles. I had always been good at shutting out the rest of the world with my reminiscing. I stepped into the welcome shade of the giant front deck, and reached into my bag for a cloth to wipe the sweat and dirt off my face. I wanted to look respectful and ready for my first day, not as if I'd just climbed a mountain (which, in my opinion, I had).

As I cooled myself down a bit, I took a look around. The porch was, undoubtedly, made of authentic stained oak. My shoes made gentle squeaking sounds on the boards. It was strangely comforting. The marble pillars I had seen from below were much, much higher up close. Apparently, the designer for this house had unique taste. In my experiences, marble never went well with wood. But in this case it looked quite good; dignified, yet not too overdecorated.

I heaved a sigh, stood back a respectful distance and examined the doors. They were large, welcoming double doors, topped with frosted glass. The wood I didn't recognize. It was probably the sort of rare, ridiculously expensive, illegally imported wood that was never seen except on the houses of people who wanted to make an impression. At least it was fitting.

I realized suddenly that I was just stalling, standing here and wiping my face and neck with the cloth over and over again. Deciding to stop before the grime got rubbed back onto my face, I dropped it into my handbag and faced the doors. The moment had come. Breathing deeply and letting it out in a big _whoosh_, I walked up to the massive doors and tried to look confident as my ever-so-slightly trembling finger pressed the doorbell.

**(A/N: What did you think? I don't know if I'll update this as frequently, but I just wanted to get it started. Should I continue?)**


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